Chris Ryan - Survival

Amber hauled herself onto the platform at the stern of the yacht and lay there, shaking all over. In the water behind her, the two surviving sharks fought over the body of the third, tearing great chunks of flesh away with their serrated teeth. Amber realized how close she had come to being torn to pieces like that. With a groan, she rolled onto her belly and vomited onto the polished wood of the platform.

She had felt a strange calmness come over her when the shark had moved in for the attack. Freeing the sharpened bamboo spear from the lace on her thigh, she had waited, treading water as the shark approached. She knew she only had one chance.

The shark had homed in on her, then turned sideways, opening its jaws as it prepared to attack. Amber had waited until the last possible second then she had rammed her bamboo spear into the dead, black eye with all her strength. The sharpened point had punctured the eye and kept going into the brain until nearly the whole length of the bamboo spear was buried in the head of the shark.

Blood had plumed out into the water and the shark immediately started thrashing erratically, cockscrewing away from her. Its lashing tail had caught her in the small of the back, knocking her out of the way as the other two sharks closed in to feed upon their former hunting partner. She had surfaced on the far side of the platform, coughing up seawater and not quite believing she was still alive.

Amber waited until she felt strong enough to stand, then climbed shakily to her feet and headed for the ladder. She tried not to think about how she was going to get back to shore. One step at a time, she told herself as she cautiously raised her head above deck level. The yacht was deserted. Amber padded across the deck, being careful to keep out of sight of the shore. She reached the glass doors leading to the main saloon, slid them open and stepped inside.

The skin rose up in goosebumps all over her body as the cool, air-conditioned atmosphere touched her. Thick carpeting deadened her footsteps as she moved further into the room, staring about her in wonder. Watercolours in gold frames hung on the walls of the saloon. Squashy white leather sofas and chairs were arranged around a large, glass coffee table. A huge bowl of fruit stood on the table and Amber felt her stomach growl as she gazed at the clusters of purple grapes and the soft, pink skin of the peaches. Less than a week ago, she would have moved carelessly through this elegant room, hardly noticing the luxury which surrounded her. Now she felt as though she had stepped into a different world.

She shook herself and tore her gaze away from the fruit, scanning the room. There was the satellite phone, on another low table in front of a wall of mirrors, and there was the expensive, leather medical bag, perched on top of the bar in the corner, just where Philippe had said it would be. Amber hesitated briefly, then headed for the medical bag first. She clicked open the locks and lifted the lid, then grabbed a plastic bag full of disposable syringes. Next she selected a box full of antibiotic vials and another box containing ampoules of sterile water and popped them into the plastic bag with the syringes. She knotted the top of the bag, then took the shoelace from her thigh and tied the bag securely around her neck.

Amber snatched a handful of cashew nuts from a bowl on the bar and shoved them into her mouth. Then she padded over to the phone, chewing as she went. She stopped in mid-stride with a look of shock on her face as she saw the tall, black girl reflected in the mirror wall. The girl was wearing nothing but her stained, grubby underwear. She was covered in cuts, grazes, bruises and mosquito bites. Her ribs and hip-bones poked out under her skin and her bedraggled hair dripped water onto her skinny shoulders.

Swallowing the nuts, Amber stared at her reflection in astonishment. How could she have got into such a state so quickly? She bit her lip and tried hard not to cry as, suddenly, the whole dreadful situation nearly overwhelmed her. Turning her eyes away from her reflection, Amber picked up the handset of the satellite phone and stopped again, staring at the illuminated keypad.

Who should she call?

Her mind was a complete blank. Nine One One was no good. That number would connect her to the US emergency services and they might have a bit of trouble getting to Indonesia within their guaranteed call-out time. Amber tried and failed to remember the number of the satellite phone aboard the Phoenix . Frantically she scanned the phone base and the table, looking for a list of useful numbers. The local coastguard, maybe, or air-sea rescue? There was nothing. Amber groaned in frustration. This was ridiculous!

She racked her brains and suddenly her uncle's home phone number popped into her head. Amber gasped with relief as she punched the numbers into the keypad with a trembling finger. She pressed the 'send' button and waited, imagining the signal heading up into space, hitting the satellite then bouncing down again to connect with the US public telephone system half a world away.

The phone began to ring in her uncle's house in New York and she hugged herself with excitement. She could not wait to hear his voice. There was a click as the phone was picked up.

'Hello?' she said eagerly. 'Hello?'

It was not her uncle on the other end. Instead she heard the warm, southern accent of his live-in housekeeper. Of course, thought Amber. Her uncle would not be at home. He would have flown out to Indonesia as soon as he heard she was missing.

'Roseanne,' she said, breathlessly. 'It's me, Amber!'

The housekeeper continued to talk.'… leave your name and number and we will get back to you.'

It was the answer-machine.

'Roseanne,' tried Amber again. 'Pick up if you're there, will you? It's me. It's Amber.'

There was silence from the other end. Amber stared down at the digital display on the phone base. The time flashed back at her in green numbers. 14:05. Her eyes widened as an awful realization hit her. If it was two in the afternoon here, that meant it was still the middle of the night in New York. Roseanne was not picking up the phone because she was fast asleep in bed.

The answer-machine clicked off. Amber swore and hit the re-dial button. She had to try again. She had to leave a clear message with as much information as she could. Impatiently, she glanced up at the mirror wall as she waited for the satellite to connect her. 'Come on! Come-'

She froze, staring into the mirror. A head with tousled, black hair was slowly rising above the back of the leather sofa in the room behind her. A hand, clutching a half-empty bottle of brandy, flopped into view. Then a second hand appeared, holding a knife with a wickedly curved blade. With horror, Amber realized that the boat was not deserted after all. The pirates had left a guard on board.

Slowly she lowered the handset and placed it gently on the table. Silently she began to edge towards the glass doors that led to the deck. The guard's drunken, flushed face appeared above the back of the sofa, his eyes squeezed shut against the sunlight. He groaned, belched, and was about to sink back down into the cushions, when a tinny but clear ringing tone began to sound from the earpiece of the handset.

The guard's eyes snapped open as Roseanne's southern drawl filled the quiet saloon. 'This is the Middleton Residence. Please leave your name and number…'

Amber ran for the glass doors as the pirate launched himself over the back of the sofa at her. The bottle flew from his hand and twisted through the air, spraying brandy everywhere. He thudded to the carpet and grabbed her by the ankle, still clutching the knife in his other hand. Amber stamped on his arm, grinding her heel into the crook of his elbow. The pirate grunted in pain and let go of her ankle, but his knife arm was swinging towards her legs.